


First Signs of Snow

by Enceladus (EspressoComfort)



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fade to Black, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Gentle Kissing, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2020-12-04
Packaged: 2021-03-09 18:08:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27880533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EspressoComfort/pseuds/Enceladus
Summary: “Why am I really here, Varric?”“It was an open invitation. Would’ve been rude not to extend it to you,” Varric replies, full well knowing it’s not what Hawke is asking. Adamant is not really something you get over. “Wine, cards, nostalgia and bashing on Anders. Get you your signed copy ofTale of the Champion.”Hawke laughs.Hawke visits Skyhold after his journey to Weisshaupt, because there's nothing like repeated near-death experiences to make a man speak the unspoken.Set in the autumn after the events of DA:I. No DLC spoilers and minimal DA2 spoilers.
Relationships: Hawke/Varric Tethras, Male Hawke/Varric Tethras, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	First Signs of Snow

There’s a brisk crispness to the air surrounding Skyhold. Inside the warm belly of the fortress, a joyful little fire crackles from resin and pine cones. A gust of cold air waltzes puffs of ashes from crumpled paper off into the air, and Varric Tethras pulls up the collar of his duster against the draft before reaching for the blotter, pen between his teeth. It takes the blonde dwarf a while to realize he’s not alone, and even then, he makes no effort to acknowledge the presence of the broad-shouldered human man that takes a seat next to him.

The silence is not uncomfortable. After all, while both of them enjoy talking, it’s usually for the benefit of others. Still, there’s something about the lack of words that feels different this time.

Varric reaches for another piece of parchment, smoothing it out on his writing board, to have something to do with his hands. For a wordsmith of his caliber, “something feels different” is as uncomfortable a descriptor as elven footwraps on a Qunari.

“Imagine finding you here,” Garrett Hawke finally says. “Would’ve thought you’d board at the tavern.”

“They don’t make them like they used to,” the dwarf replies.

“I also noticed the bartender’s a dwarf. Cute. Curt.”

“You don’t say. Never noticed myself,” Varric replies, but this time he looks up, a lopsided smile pulling at the corners of his lips. “Hawke. You look good, considering. Alive, all limbs left,” he specifies at the surprised smile of the other man.

He does indeed look good, if somewhat mangled by the road, and tired. There’s a deep tan to his already weather-bitten skin. His dark hair is overgrown and falls in soft waves around his face, and fine crosshatches of age at the corners of his eyes and mouth reveal it's years since he left Kirkwall, but those piercingly blue eyes are sharp as always. There’s a shadow over his nose where the stroke of red usually sits, perhaps left out to travel less conspicuous. Even dressed in a simple dark blue Fereldan tunic and breeches with folded boots, he still stands out. Hawke always did.

“Not so bad yourself. Considering,” Hawke counters.

“So you went to Weisshaupt?”

The bearded man makes a grimace.

“Went? Try walked to. Little travel advice, if you ever have to go to the desolate scorched wasteland that is the Anderfels, don’t go in the summer when it’s, if possible, even more desolate and scorching, and gurgut mating season.”

Hawke produces a bottle of Rivaini red and pours two goblets, offering one to Varric.

“Still not a fan of gurguts?”

“See, one gurgut, no problem, zap, foof, poof”, the mage makes a gesture as if throwing one of his signature fireballs, “but, five gurguts? Not a fan. Neither was my horse.” Varric chuckles.

“I digress. About, let’s say, two pairs of boots later, Wardens were warned.” Taking a sip of wine, he continues: “They weren’t happy about what went down, back at Adamant… Well, no surprise there.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, there’s also the matter of some suitably secret intel for the Inquisition from the Warden Commander. Sealed, of course, but nothing you can’t handle,” Hawke says with a wink. “If I’d have to guess it might be related to her banishing the Wardens from southern Thedas, but I’m just a simple man. I hear your Inquisitor got Corypheus handled once and for all?”

“That’s the hope.”

“So are you staying here?”

“Holed up in a drafty castle in the Frostbacks? Nah. First sign of snow, and I’ll be going back to Kirkwall.”

“Mm, a whole city of drafty old castles, chaos and rubble.”

“You could come with me,” Varric suggests.

Hawke shrugs, but doesn’t reply, then looks into the fire. 

“How’s Bianca?”

“What are you, spying for the Merchants’ Guild now?”

“They couldn’t afford me,” Hawke laughs. “No Bianca then?”

“No Bianca”, Varric says with a huff.

Hawke seems to think for a while.

“So you and the Seeker then? She seemed to have it in for you, first time I came around here.”

“Me and Cass?” Varric barks a laugh.

“I heard you let her beat you up,” Hawke says, voice neutral.

“Let her? You seen the woman? She’d stop a stampede of druffalo without breaking a sweat. There’s not a soft spot on her. Meanwhile me? All soft.”

“Well I like the soft parts. Working on one myself,” Hawke quips, gripping at nonexistent belly fat.

“Too bad you’re one broad hunk of a man, eh?”

“Downright strapping. So nothing there with the Seeker?”

“Resentment, begrudging respect, nothing more.”

Another glass of wine is poured, and Hawke adds another log to the fire before speaking again.

“Hmm. How about the, uh, dwarven ladies of the Inquisition? Heard the enchanter, Dagna, is here.”

The dwarf sets down his goblet, smile fading.

“What’s with this particular line of inquiry, Garrett?”

“Oh, I just want to… Make sure you’re taken care of here.”

The tense timbre to Hawke’s voice doesn’t go unnoticed, but Varric lets it slide, eyeing his friend. 

When Hawke is ready to say something, he does. When he isn’t, he deflects with sarcasm. Come to think of it, perhaps Varric is the same, he ponders. It’s worked so far.

“When there’s demons knocking on your door, this is as good a place as any. We got all of Thedas covered in the ranks, a dash of adventure, a sprinkle of romance, intrigue and machinations. Villains and big old heroes. Even wrote a few chapters on a few new books,” he says, giving the pile of paper a quick tap. “Fortress is a little drafty at times, but, there’s fermented fruit juice.”

“Inquisitor Lavellan sounds like a good leader,” Hawke says diplomatically.

“She’s come a long way. Strong protagonist material. She reminds me of you, you know. Even has her own elven lover. Had, I mean.”

An easy smile passes over his face, but fades a little toward the end. Hawke’s expression settles on thoughtful.

“Why am I really _here_ , Varric?”

“It was an open invitation. Would’ve been rude not to extend it to you,” Varric replies, full well knowing it’s not what Hawke is asking. Adamant is not really something you get over. “Wine, cards, nostalgia and bashing on Anders. Get you your signed copy of _Tale of the Champion_.”

Hawke laughs.

“I read the book already. Did I really land on my ass that often?”

“Blame poetic license.”

“The way you wax poetic about the merits of it, I can’t really take offence.”

 _Is it that obvious?_ The burn at his cheeks takes Varric by surprise, but Hawke’s easy flirt stings. He’s never meant anything by it. Varric clears his throat.

“Well, wine and cards are still on the table. The Herald’s Rest is pretty quiet these days.”

“It sounds lovely, but I think I need to get to bed. Look, there’s one thing I didn’t... You wrote as if we’re Callista and Camallia. I mean… Fenris and I. The way things went down, he’s not coming back.”

There's no sadness in Hawke’s voice.

“Yeah, I gathered. Life’s not a story,” Varric sighs.

  
  


It’s dark on the gallery, despite the flickering flame of the torch in its holder. The cold air blowing through Hawke’s hair reminds him of Sundermount, and, not quite simpler, but times when purpose was clear.

“This is where they have you staying?” Varric gruffs, pushing the door open.

“I said I wasn’t picky, and Morris said to take any room on the gallery,” he replies. Varric always was a bit of a snob, though one that pretended otherwise. But a generous and kind-hearted snob, and one that’s currently eyeing the room suspiciously.

One of the servants has hung Hawke’s gear by the door, and there’s a warm glow from the fireplace. It’s been cleaned, but the room feels inhabited. 

“Cozy,” he comments, lifting a dusty old tome. “ _Spirits of the Spire_? Mareno, brother Genitivi,” he lists off, “This is the kind of stuff Anders had lying around, isn’t it?”

“There was an elf mage living here up until Corypheus showed up. Astonishing expert on the Fade, keen on the Inquisitor. Until he wasn't,” Varric replies, “She didn’t order it, but no one’s dared touch this room since. My suspicion is, uh, lover’s quarrel.”

“Fade, eh? Merrill would’ve liked that. Wherever she is. So.”

Hawke takes a seat on the narrow bed, about to say good night, ready to leave again come first light, but the way Varric makes no move to leave, standing awkwardly by the desk, stops him, stirring the old unspoken mess of strings around his heart. 

He’s awake. There is no desire demon lurking in the shadows, no Nightmare about to take Varric from him, nothing to bolt him awake from a bad dream, leaving him sweating and shaking. Still, he finds, the words won’t come.

Hawke swallows, allowing himself to really look at the dwarf for the first time. The soft orange light brings out the gold in his hair. The gold chain, the red brocade of the silk shirt, the gloves and the old duster, all of the details he’d almost forgotten. The half-healed mark on his nose. The way his voice sounds.

Garrett Hawke is used to travelling alone. But that doesn’t make it less lonely.

“You've been quiet tonight, Varric,” he says, voice low.

“Not so chatty yourself,” he replies, but there’s that patient kindness instead of sarcasm, as if Varric is waiting for him to say something. He wets his lips, and looks down.

“Why am I here, Varric.”

“You really want to know? You’re the one who volunteered to deal with Smiley. Beats me. You’ll have to ask Lavellan why she chose Stroud to stay. Maybe she liked your beard better. Maybe she read _Tale_.”

 _Or perhaps_ , Hawke thinks, _she didn’t want to disappoint her companion, Varric_. But the disappointment is thick in Varric’s voice regardless.

“I would offer to do it again, to save you. But, if it’s any consolation, I’m glad I didn’t have to stay behind,” Hawke says.

“Hm. Well I’m glad too,” Varric replies, after a while.

“And I’m…” Hawke shakes his head, steeling himself. “Living on borrowed time, it has a tendency to make a man want to speak the unspoken. So here goes. Varric.”

He looks up at the mention of his name.

Hawke’s throat constricts, but the words slip out past his lips, fragile and fearful. 

“I love you.”

It’s hardly even a whisper, but in the silence it seems deafening. Varric doesn’t reply, and not a muscle moves on his face as they stare each other down. It’s Hawke who lets his gaze fall to his hands, turning in his lap.

“Say... something,” Hawke pleads, forcing a chuckle of a laugh. 

“You… love me?”

It’s a simple question, and Varric poses it equally simply, voice low but neutral. A small glimpse of hope that he hasn’t ruined everything. Hawke hesitates. He could still play it off as familial, brotherly, platonic. A joke, an old crush. But this might be the last time they see each other, and the previous three, he didn’t say it. A man only gets so many chances. He pulls his shaking hand into a fist, and draws a steadying breath.

“Yes. It’s you I’ve been thinking about since, since we met, really. I know you’re not… Interested in us humans, men at that. But, I thought, I don’t know…” Hawke closes his eyes, leaning back on his arms with a sigh.

“What?”

“Well. I thought,” he can feel himself smiling, “A man doesn’t just write paragraphs on the merits of his friend’s ass out of nowhere?”

Somewhere in the room, Varric chuckles, but it sounds forced. “Readers eat that stuff up,” he says.

“I guess they do. Look. Now you know. I don’t expect you to say it back. But.. That’s why I came back. And… why I’m here,” he adds, voice steadier than he feels.

The seconds tick past.

“ I hope we can still be friends,” Hawke finally says, daring to open his eyes.

In all the time they’ve known each other, Varric has never been one to wear his heart on his sleeve, but rather, bending the truth and his face as he sees fit to achieve any outcome he wants. With all that confidence removed, he looks much younger. His eyes search out Hawke’s. His lips move, but no words form. 

“Dammit, Waffles, I don’t… Know how to, how to say, I...”

Varric's words trail off, as if he’s not even sure of what might spill out.

“I didn’t dare…” he tries again, then throws his hands down in frustration, and walks up to Hawke on the bed, grabs him by the ears and pulls him in for a kiss.

The kiss is soft, and it’s slow, and the sound that escapes Hawke’s throat is a mix of surprise and longing. Varric’s warm but rough lips taste of wine, and his duster smells of smoke and oak gall ink and home. It’s nothing like what he imagined, yet everything he dreamed, but the tears that itch and burn at the corners of his eyes are from relief. 

When they break apart for air, he pulls Varric close, leaning his head against the dwarf’s chest. The hair is tickly against his ear, and he finds himself smiling despite the tears running down his cheeks.

“Hey,” Varric mumbles against his head. “‘S alright. I love you too.”

  
  


“Hmm, Varric?”

“Waffles?”

It’s later, and darkness has settled. A soft layer of snow has settled on the window sill, but neither of the men on the narrow bed seem to notice. 

“Waffles… Maker, what I wouldn’t give for some thick, Orlesian waffles!”

“Still thinking with your stomach, I see,” Varric whispers.

“Well, I wasn’t thinking at all…”

“Common state of events,” Varric interrupts.

“... but my arm’s falling asleep,” Hawke finishes, pressing a quick kiss on Varric’s bicep.

“Oh. Sorry, I better...”

Varric moves to sit up, but Hawke pulls him in closer. The dwarf huffs, but settles his head on Hawke’s shoulder.

“You know, I think you mentioned your room has a somewhat wider bed,” Hawke mumbles sleepily, nothing left unspoken.

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Dragon Age Day 2020!
> 
> Comments are wonderful and welcome. Please be gentle, it's my first time writing these two ♡
> 
> ♡, Enceladus


End file.
